A Very British Earthquake.

I woke up this morning, all snuggled up with The Blokey, and remembered the odd dream I’d indulged in during the night.  There had been a huge bang, like some large vehicle crashing into the side of the house.  I recollect jerking upright and squinting through the darkness, but The Blokey wasn’t yet in bed and the bedroom door was shut.  I distinctly remember thinking, in my dream, that The Blokey must have simply dropped something on the landing and so I simply lay my head back on my pillow and drifted back to sleep, in my dream. 

Of course, it wasn’t a dream. 

Yay!  I experienced my very first [noticeable] earthquake!

So, there have been a variety of comments made throughout the day.  There are those folk who are really excited [me], those who never even noticed [The Blokey, who had fallen asleep on the settee whilst watching the tellybox], those who couldn’t care less one way or the other, those who like to scare-monger and those who just look for the negative aspects. 

It’s the latter folk who are the spoilsports.  They grumble about what a non-event it is and they bitch about the way we take little things and turn them into big things.  They spout facts at people, talk about how other countries manage to not get their knickers in a twist over unremarkable acts by Mother Nature and generally belittle the ‘inferior’ people. 

The thing is, it is quite a novel event and that’s why it’s not only newsworthy, but also vaguely exciting in a wow, a new experience way.  I’m never likely to experience an earthquake again – not in this country, and not counting the teeny minor ones we have a hundred or so times a year – and what makes it more novel is that it was so little, so undamaging, and yet so bloody noisy [and I’m about a hundred miles from the epicentre].  Of course, the negative folk are those who also bemoan the way the country grinds to a halt when there’s snow … we don’t know how to deal with snow because we never bloody get it.  For goodness sake. 


Still, the most exciting news event of the month [and one of the only ones which doesn’t involve serial killers] will be tomorrow’s chip paper. And then we can all forget about it for thirty or so years.

This post was going to be about other stuff, mainly my MiL, but as you may have noticed, it isn’t. 


please God bless the trembling earth xxx Elsabeth



I was born in Gip and raised in a village just a couple of miles away.  I worked in various shops/factories in Gip and went to Sixth Form there.  I saw bands, drank cider and kissed in cemeteries in Gip.  I’ve never had a problem walking through Gip at night.  I’ve frozen my arse off on the Town Hall steps [where all the cool kids hung out … do they still?] and been ‘shroom gathering in leafy parks.  I’ve chatted boys up at the Crown Pools and stalked John Wark in McDonalds. 

I like Gip.  I love Gip.  Gip would be the town I would love to live in, again.  Work in, again.  Or maybe Norwich.  Given the choice that would actually be a toughie.  But, for this entry’s sake, let’s say Gip is the place I feel most at home in, the place I could lay my weary head. 

Gip is really famous for nothing.  Oh, Thomas Wolsey was born in Gip, and Nik Kershaw went to school there.  John Peel, Griff Rhys-Jones and Val Lehman all have connections with Gip [Val Lehman lived two doors away from a friend of mine and we used to stare out of the window for hours [minutes] waiting for her to come home – we were huge Prisoner: Cell Block H fans]. 

Today Gip is headline news. 

National headline news. 


It’s the sort of thing that only happens up north.  Or in London.  Or maybe Birmingham.  It doesn’t happen in Gip.  Gip is refined and … nice.  Quiet and gentle. 

Surely nobody in Gip could be a serial killer? 

Ack, I’m better off living here where the children have webbed feet and they can’t pronounce their t’s. 

please God bless the girls of Gip and keep them safe xxx Elsabeth